


The Passing Lane

by facetofcathy



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 03:57:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facetofcathy/pseuds/facetofcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"How can you forge a car?"</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Passing Lane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/gifts).



"How can you forge a car?" Peter said. He was irritated, and his brow had that furrow that made Neal's smile brighter the deeper it got.

"I explained all this," Neal said, and he nipped out and shot past the BMW he'd been dogging. He stayed out in the left lane where the right-hand drive was easier to handle.

"You told some cock and bull story about needing to drive the car at, what was it again? Right, _substantial speed_, in order to authenticate the engineering and motor response dynamics—that doesn't even make sense."

Neal laughed, shifted, and let the car shoot forward past another fine example of modern automotive design. "I know."

"You're stealing this car. You are stealing this car with me in it."

"I'm not stealing the car, Peter."

"You're stealing the car."

"I'm borrowing the car."

"I'm such an idiot," Peter said, "I thought you were flirting with, whats her name—"

"Irene."

"Right. And all the time, that was just cover for grand theft auto."

"Peter, did you really think I could ever have eyes for Irene? On a day when you let El pick out your clothes—never."

"What, my—she suggested, suggested. And what do my clothes have to do with you stealing this car?" Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked down at his stylish tie with suspicion.

He'd got Peter to splutter with indignation, and the sun was shining, and Neal had a genuine 1972 Jensen Interceptor in a shade of blue good enough for Vermeer, not to mention the V8 under the hood. Life was good. Life was damn good.

He'd only needed to glance at the interior of the car to know it was genuine, and not one of the overpriced rebuilds, but Irene didn't need to know that. And Peter hadn't asked.

"Turn around."

"Peter, come on, relax. Don't you ever want to feel the open road under your tires and the wind in your hair? Isn't it nice to get out of that Ford, the car that wants to think for you, control you, drive for you?"

"How is this different?" Peter said and gestured at Neal in the driver's seat.

"I'm much more fun than a Ford Taurus."

Peter turned away and grumbled at the window for a mile or so.

Neal let him enjoy his discontent while he found the right off ramp. "So, what's it to be? Cruise the Hamptons, see how the other half lives, or head straight for the beach?"

"Case the scene of your next heist, or get sand in my shoes, you mean?"

"Peter."

"Fine, all right, you win. The beach, then. Satisfied?"

"Not yet," Neal said, and he shifted into high gear, let the engine have her head. "But I will be."


End file.
